The Curse of the Purse

From times of ole’
From times of yore
Simpler were things before
When teachings were of lore.

The era of bare knowledge,
and inept imagination.
With no preconception of a college
When fire was a new creation.

Free from worries of today
Trapped by worries of yesterday
Of which we think of not
For it is but a blot.

A blot in the blink of time
for humanity is still in her prime
For I am her’s and she is mine,
in eternal rhyme.

For a drop in a lake,
Though it insignificant
still causes a quake
Making it nificant.

Perhaps not to all,
To some I yet make windfall.
One drop to the next,
Making sure the drop is not a hex.

Those of Ancient decent we are
Trapped between the earth and the Star
Trapped in an eternal bazaar
where we constantly spar.

Fighting over that which flows
to and from, yang and yin
until we finally froze.
Simply froze from within.

A freeze so dead it melts the curse
of which we all keep in our purse.
Away from family one and all,
for it controls us all.


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